consider this hint of a century
by Nygmatech
Summary: Clark is made of feathers and wax. One day, like the Greek Icarus, he is going to fly too close to the sun. Clark/Lex, Slash


consider this hint of a century

Superman makes his last appearance at Bruce Wayne's funeral, some hundred years after they first met—and he feels like the only one that cares. The reception is packed with people, most of whom Clark doesn't recognize and doesn't really care to in the first place. But then, it's not like Bruce had anyone left, either. Damian retired the mantle of Batman at sixty, Nightwing and the Red Hood went out together in a blaze of glory fifty some years ago, and one day Red Robin and Superboy were just… gone.

Clark realises then that he doesn't have anyone left either, and the crowd becomes suffocating and he's all too aware that he's only a big man in a silly costume surrounded by people in mourning black. Bruce would have appreciated the gesture.

But there are different heroes in Gotham now. In Metropolis. The Justice League is just an urban legend, Superman a tourist attraction.

He wonders when it all went wrong.

* * *

Lex finds him, hours, months, years, centuries later, sitting awkwardly on the wet earth by Bruce's freshly dug grave, and has the good taste not to speak. Just stands there, watching, and Clark turns his head up, face caked with emotion, and says, very quietly, "_Lex._"

"Hello, Clark," he says, and _looks_ at him, not a day over thirty. Clark takes the handkerchief he offers. Superman and Lex Luthor. The left overs. The tyrants, the great and once-great.

"Bruce was a friend of mine—publically, anyway," Lex continues, and although there's no emotion in his voice, it's good enough for Clark. He knows otherwise, anyways. "I was sad to hear he had passed on."

And Clark just shrugs his shoulders, stares down at the earth

"He was a hundred and twelve, Lex. It was going to happen."

"_I'm_ a hundred and twelve."

Lex looks and sounds mildly ruffled, and Clark can't help it, he bursts out laughing, and he shouldn't, he really shouldn't, but isn't it funny? Still a queen and he's in his hundreds, it's just so _Lex, _nevermind the fact that he hasn't aged in eighty some years. They'd known he was a meteor freak too, back then in Smallville, though it's almost painful to think of Smallville again, now. They just hadn't known his healing was _this_ extensive. It was fitting, somehow. Lex had always wanted to be immortalized.

"Clark? What's so funny?"

"Nothing, it's just…"

He doesn't know how to finish that, so he leaves it there, hanging.

"Let's go back to Smallville," Lex suggests, abruptly.

"Okay," Clark says, because there's nothing else he can do, and lets Lex place a hand in the small of his back like he used to when he knew Clark was upset, and lets Lex lead him away.

* * *

Lex still drives like Clark remembers, reckless and fast. He has a new Porsche, or—Clark supposes, an old one. A model built just like the relic from the day they met.

Whenever they rode together, before, Clark would always make comments on Lex's driving and Lex would respond that it was good he had Clark to save him then, he didn't have to worry about any car accidents.

They don't talk this time, though, but that's okay. Clark doesn't know what to say, anyway.

Lex makes a sharp curve, a screeching on the pavement, and lets go of the wheel.

They're on a bridge, Clark notes numbly, and the car crashes into the river below and they sink sink sink.

* * *

"I could have sworn I hit you with my car," Lex tells him.

"If you did, then I'd be dead," Clark says, but his words are as empty as Lex's eyes. He puts his hands on Lex's chest and tries to focus on Lex's heartbeat, a slow and infallible rhythm bleeding up through his rib cage.

Lex's cold hand curls around the back of his neck, draws him down, and Clark is fairly sure this doesn't count as CPR anymore, but that's okay too. Lex has never done this before, but then, Clark isn't sixteen this time, either. He tastes like the river and Clark wonders if this is what drowning is like.

* * *

The Kent family farm is old and abandoned, but the loft still seems salvageable, and they stand among the wreckage, staring up at the stars.

"The stuff of legend," Lex reminds him.

"It scares me when you talk like that."

"Why?"

"It makes me think you want me, too."

If he didn't know better, Clark would think Lex was the one with heat vision. His skin feels hot where Lex's eyes are boring into the back of his skull, but Clark doesn't look.

"Do you want me, Clark?" Lex asks, and it's softer than Clark expects. He exhales.

"Yes."

"How long?"

He can't remember how long, but that's alright. He doesn't need years and months to measure this.

"A long time, Lex."

"Where?"

Clark touches him. His cheek, his neck, the still damp lavender silk of his shirt. "Here. Everywhere."

"Show me," Lex commands.

"Okay," Clark says, because he's so fucking tired, and he thinks he's supposed to want this too.

* * *

"How long are we going to keep fighting, Lex?"

They're looking at the stars again, but this time they're sprawled out in a corn field, the castle a hulking mass behind them.

"I don't know."

"I'm going home," Clark tells him, on impulse, and he doesn't mean Smallville and he doesn't mean Metropolis. "Tonight."

"Take me with you."

Lex's fingers curl around his wrist. They're still looking up at the inky black sky, and well, Lex has always wanted to be among the stars.

"Okay," Clark says, because he understands. He picks Lex up effortlessly, but his arms are heavy and he feels sluggish, like a man just drowned.

Lex buries his face in Clark's chest and closes his eyes. "Have I ever told you about the Greek legend of Icarus?"

Clark takes off with a sonic boom, and he flies and flies and flies.


End file.
